


Day 2: Ice/cold

by Erengalad



Series: Musketeers March 2021 [1]
Category: The Musketeers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29825946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erengalad/pseuds/Erengalad
Summary: Second entry for the Musketeer March 2021 Tumblr Challenge."And there, under the feeble light of a dying candle, lay the shadow of a man, all rust and bone and skin tight over diminished features, flickering in and out of consciousness with every quivering breath."
Series: Musketeers March 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192586
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Day 2: Ice/cold

**Author's Note:**

> Note this is brief but harsh; though those topics are not touched here openly, skip this work if you're not comfortable with the idea of reading even very vaguely about suicide and harm.

**_Paris. November 1625._ **

##  **⚜**

That darkened room had known better times and so had its sole inhabitant. The walls had flaked to reveal inner layers of old paint and torn wallpapers and the cold seeped in through a window that, long ago, had refused to conform to its function. The scarce furnishings had been picked up somewhere befitting the general decadence of the place, the only object that shone among the gloom a blade halfway out of its scabbard. 

And there, under the feeble light of a dying candle, lay the shadow of a man, all rust and bone and skin tight over diminished features, flickering in and out of consciousness with every quivering breath.

He shivered.

A broken cough stormed through cracked lips before he leaned back against the wall, a violent tremor taking hold of his limbs and cold water dripping from his chin. A hand reached for her locket, buried deep within his shirt, as though it was his only tether to reality.

The other had already reached for whatever bottle remained in his vicinity, seeking the oblivion it would bring and the crimes it would drown.

For some time now that had become a ritual of sorts. He would come in late, bruised body and bloodied knuckles, to sag bonelessly over dirty tiles and broken dreams and too damn drunk to care where he would endure another sleepless, dreamless night. And oh, the cold. That cold that reminded him he was still alive.

Breathing.

That cold that seemed to knit another layer of ice about him anew time an image from a not so distant past assailed him in the dark alleyways of his mind. He fought against it, of course. He tried to drown all his cheerful memories in cheap wine, because remembering felt like treason. Against whom, he could not say. 

But those old walls knew nothing. They were new to him, silent witnesses to troubled nights, to inner fights, to clothes drenched in wine and eyes crying over whatever remained of love betrayed and a future crushed. His or hers, he could not say either. 

He had drunk and brawled and fought his way into Paris, hoping some poor soul would take mercy on him, and all that he had found and all that he had left was that coldness in his heart; a cold that sometimes, in his few moments of clarity, clenched its claws around his chest, tearing, hurting, reminding him his salvation —his soul— had long since crumbled to dust. 

He cried.

He drank.

He fought.

He sought a harsh solace for his wounds in ice cold water.

He asked himself who he was, though his name was still new and held no meaning. It was hollow. Cold. 


End file.
